


One September Morning

by kittimau



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Awkward Flirting, Cashier Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel and Dean Winchester Being Idiots, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Crush at First Sight, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Humor, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Oblivious Castiel/Dean Winchester, POV Dean Winchester, Pining, Reunions, Romantic Fluff, Sexual Tension, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, seriously so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29453973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittimau/pseuds/kittimau
Summary: A chance encounter with an intriguing blue-eyed stranger upends Dean's otherwise mundane life. But can he muster the courage to make a move before it's too late?“Name’s Dean. Dean Winchester.”Cas stares at the offending appendage so long Dean starts to worry the guy has a thing about germs before he takes it and gives it a sturdy shake. His palms are dry and warm and surprisingly soft against Dean’s own calloused ones and the strength of his grip is giving Dean all kinds of inappropriate fantasies.“Nice to meet you,” Cas says.He licks his lips and grins. “Pleasure’s all mine.”
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 34
Kudos: 124
Collections: Profound Bond Gift Exchange: Reunion





	One September Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DustinMcDreamy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustinMcDreamy/gifts).



> Written for the [ProfoundBond](https://discord.gg/profoundbond) Gift Exchange.

It’s a Thursday like any other when Dean’s GE 7-4612A alarm sounds, tuned to his favorite station. This particular mid-September morning he wakes to Paul Rodgers crooning the sweet yet melancholic “Ready for Love” and groans, flailing one arm out from beneath the covers with eyes slitted against the meager pink-tinted light of dawn filtering through his curtains to slap clumsily at the off button.

As with his ‘67 Impala’s original tape deck, Dean’s a sucker for the old digital piece of junk he picked up at Goodwill eight years ago, yet days like this make him reconsider using his phone’s generic bell preset instead.

Don’t get him wrong; he digs the hell out of Bad Company, but love songs have been hitting him in all the wrong places lately. And no, contrary to what his friends will tell you, it’s not because he’s lonely. He has plenty of company. He dates.

He’s _fine_.

...Okay, maybe he’s not fine.

Dating is a simultaneously awesome and terrible sorta torture, like an alternate universe where he’s served perfectly cooked Kobe every day but the craving for a disgustingly greasy bacon cheddar burger slowly wears away at him until it’s all he can think about and the steak turns to ash in his mouth.

Simply put, one night stands just… aren’t doing it for him anymore. Haven’t been for a while.

It’s with that ominous start that Dean drags himself through the monotony of his morning ablutions. He takes a piss, brushes his teeth, runs some pomade through his hair, and swipes on a thick layer of deodorant. After throwing a plaid shirt on over a threadbare AC/DC tee, shimmying into a pair of faded-at-the-knee jeans, and tugging his steel-toes over socked feet, he grabs his favorite snapback, an army-green canvas jacket, and heads out the door with plenty of time left to make one stop before work.

Same shit, different day.

“Mornin’, girl,” he says, sliding behind Baby’s steering wheel and giving the dash an affectionate pat. “Miss me?”

His brother says it’s creepy that Dean talks to (and anthropomorphizes) his car, but Sammy eats gross shit like kale and quinoa and listens to Celine Dion, so that renders his opinion moot in Dean’s book.

It’s fifteen minutes shy of 7 a.m. when he pulls the Impala into his spot at Singer’s Auto Repair and cuts her engine, taking a brief moment to check his texts. There’s one from Ellen confirming dinner at her and Bobby’s place that weekend, and another from Sam doing the same, as though he’s irresponsible enough to forget. Dean’s twenty-four, for Chrissakes. He practically changed the kid’s diapers.

He rolls his eyes. Replies to Ellen with “Wouldn’t miss it 😘,” then sends a smug selfie to Sam (bird-flipping included, for good measure) which makes him snort because he can already picture in his mind the look that will cause. Bitchface number thirteen, most likely—the one that says, _really, Dean? Grow up._

With that, he shoulders the car door open and locks it, setting the phone on vibrate and slipping it into his back pocket.

Dean’s coffee machine at home rarely sees use—partly because it’s old as balls and more jittery than a chihuahua in winter—and partly because the garage is right next to the Gas-N-Sip, so he never has far to go for blessed caffeine. That’s always his first stop, and that’s where he’s heading now, his shadow stretching across the pavement under a steadily rising sun.

Once inside, he shuffles down the aisle toward the hot drinks and quickly pours himself the largest available cup of Columbian Roast, glancing around to make sure no one’s watching before he adds a liberal dose of sugar and cream. Drinking it black is fine and dandy when he has to, but (and he’ll never admit this aloud) it tastes better this way. He opts for pumpkin spice today since they put it out early in the season.

Yeah, so maybe he’s a basic bitch at heart. It’s a secret he’ll take to his grave.

He grabs a couple kolaches on his way back to the front of the store, head down, the hand not carrying everything fishing for the wallet crammed into the pocket his phone doesn’t currently occupy. And he’s in luck—there’s no line—so the second it’s yanked free he dumps the food and cup on the counter and flips it open to remove a bill.

“Good morning. Will this be all for you today?”

He starts at the gravely, unfamiliar voice, blinking up from his wallet into the bluest eyes he’s ever seen. Deep and clear as crystal, hooded with dark lashes, they’re surrounded by an equally unique face. Broad, strong-jawed, with a slightly dimpled chin, straight Patrician nose, and shadow of stubble that seems to pay five o'clock no heed. Around his own age, he guesses—maybe a year or two older. Not classically handsome per se, but definitely attention-grabbing. Paired with _that voice_ , it’s already won Dean’s.

The man at the register stares back, wide-eyed and silent, until someone clears their throat. Dean snaps his jaw shut with an audible click, unaware both that it’d been hanging slack to begin with _and_ that anyone else had approached the counter behind him.

He slides the bill in his hand over, embarrassed, and mutters a curt, “Yeah.”

The new guy’s eyes drop as he rings up Dean’s purchase and hands over the change. Their fingers brush, bringing fresh heat to Dean’s own cheeks. Flustered, he hurries out of the store, telling himself it’s so he’s not late to work rather than admitting he just got friggin’ butterflies from a stranger.

* * *

Dean makes his way across the parking lot, boots trudging through last night’s already-grey, muddy slush. He buries his hands in his jacket pockets, lamenting his failure to grab gloves on the way out of the apartment. It’s not winter yet, but for as frigid as November in Lawrence gets, it might as well be, so the minute he steps into the welcoming warmth of the convenience store he’s rubbing them together, attempting to blow some feeling back into his fingertips. At least he’s got work gloves waiting in his locker with his coveralls—pretty sure functional hands are a primary job requirement in his field.

Stepping inside the Gas-N-Sip, he scans the store and spots the hot new guy (whose name tag, Dean found once he wasn’t too dumbstruck to notice it, reads simply, _Cas_ ). Rather than behind the register this morning, Cas is fumbling with the door where they store cases of beer that don’t fit in the refrigerated shelves, arms full.

Dean rushes over. “Hey, lemme get that for you.”

“Thanks,” Cas replies, voice strained from his efforts. “Do you mind holding it open?”

“Yeah, no problem.” He pulls it wide, giving Cas enough room to shuffle inside, and follows him into the large freezer.

Arms bulging within the rolled-up sleeves of his white button-down, Cas grunts and lowers his payload to the floor. He stretches as he stands, eyes closed, one hand pressed to the small of his arched back, and Dean _knows_ the relieved groan that slips out is gonna have a VIP spot in his spank bank for the foreseeable future.

When they open, Cas’ eyes slide coolly over him, paying him far more attention than any of the other times he’s visited the store. “Thanks again. That was a disaster waiting to happen,” he says.

“Anytime, Cas.”

Cas cocks an eyebrow at that and when Dean points at the tag pinned crookedly to his vest, he looks down at his own chest as though noticing it for the first time and mumbles, “Oh.”

Figuring the time’s now or never to shoot his shot, he juts out his hand. “Name’s Dean. Dean Winchester.”

Cas stares at the offending appendage so long Dean starts to worry the guy has a thing about germs before he takes it and gives it a sturdy shake. His palms are dry and warm and surprisingly soft against Dean’s own calloused ones and the strength of his grip is giving Dean all kinds of inappropriate fantasies.

“Nice to meet you,” Cas says.

He licks his lips and grins. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Cas’ mouth curves at the edges—not quite a smile, but close enough. Then he bends down to the cases he still needs to sort, a clear enough signal that the conversation is over.

Eyes glued to the delectable way Cas fills out his jeans, Dean makes to leave and runs right into the closed door.

* * *

The leaves fade from varying shades of orange-red to brown and, drifting in lofty spirals to coat the ground, they rapidly disappear under increasingly thick layers of snow as autumn officially switches over to winter.

With an endless stream of repaired engines, replaced batteries, changed alternators, fixed brakes, etcetera, Dean’s days more or less blur together as they always have. He loves the work, though. Loves fixing things with his hands, seeing the fruits of his efforts, feeling useful. But he can’t prevent the longing for more stirring under the surface like the current beneath a frozen river, the nagging sense that something is _missing_.

Throughout that time, the highlight of Dean’s workday quickly becomes his morning trip to the Gas-N-Sip. He learns that Cas opens the store every day except Monday and Wednesday, with one Sunday off every other week.

 _It’s not weird to notice that,_ Dean argues with himself. _Just a casual observation. One any store regular would make._

Gradually, Dean begins finding new excuses to drop by. At lunch for a soda and snack. After work for a six-pack. On days off to fill up Baby’s tank. Then he starts switching shifts with Benny. When Bobby notices, he gives Dean an uncomfortably scrutinizing look, and just starts scheduling him for the days Cas will be there.

Might as well.

During every stop at the store, Dean loiters as long as he can reasonably get away with. (Luckily Rufus, the manager, has known him for years and so far nobody’s called the cops, but he has gotten some suspicious looks from other customers.) And every time, he tries and mostly fails to strike up a conversation with Cas.

When he’s at the register. Or stocking shelves. Or refilling the slushy machine. Or sweeping. Or putting fresh hot dogs on the roller-grill.

Dean can’t tell what’s worse; his own sudden, frustrating, and fucking inexplicable lack of game, or that Cas remains as unfazed and seemingly disinterested as that first morning. Weeks have passed, and they’ve still barely said a few polite sentences to each other.

Maybe Cas is straight. Maybe he’s shy. Maybe he just thinks Dean is weird.

It’s hard to tell.

Why he even cares so much, Dean has no clue, aside from it being rare to have new people around. Okay, and yeah, the guy is _fine as absolute fuck_. Whatever. The important thing is, something about Cas intrigues him, and once he has his sights set, Dean’s a capital-D Dog with a bone(r).

* * *

“Why don’t you just ask for his number?” Charlie says way too damn cheerfully one freezing but sunny January morning. Her fugly banana yellow ‘76 Gremlin is at the shop, so he’d picked her up on his way to work to retrieve it. Two birds and all that jazz.

Dean sputters indignantly, “Dude. I’m not—it’s not—”

“Uh-huh. Look, Dean, I love you, but you’re about as subtle as a sledgehammer to the face.”

He groans, scrubbing the rough palm not busy steering over his jaw.

“Chill out,” she soothes. “I’m not saying you should vulcanize his whoopee stick right off the bat. Just get to know him as a friend. So you can figure out his deal, ya know?”

“First of all? Fuck you, Bradbury, because now that earworm from hell is gonna torture me the rest of the day,” he says, playful tone taking the bite out of his words. “Second, isn’t that still pretty presumptuous?”

“Like it’s not presumptuous to stalk the guy at work?”

“I’m not _stalking_ him,” Dean grumbles pathetically. “We work next door to each other.”

“Close enough, bro.”

He flips the signal to make the final turn onto their destination street, determined to ignore his best friend. She throws her arms up with a dramatic, long-suffering sigh, but lets it go and changes the subject. Only half-listening to her suggestions for his upcoming twenty-fifth, his mind wanders.

Maybe Charlie’s right. What’s the harm in asking?

* * *

A couple of days before Valentine’s, Dean’s surreptitiously stirring his coffee when Cas ninjas up beside him, plopping a small cardboard box onto the countertop. Dean almost spills it, slapping the lid over the cup before Cas can see exactly how light the brew within is.

He pastes on his most charming smirk and says, “Mornin’, Sunshine,” hoping his surprise wasn’t obvious.

Suddenly a little pink-cheeked, Cas side-eyes him from the pile of single-serve sugar packets and stirring straws he’s currently restocking while Kevin, the high-school senior who’s worked there part-time for the last year and a half, mans the register. Cas’ lips twitch into a small smile, and his eyes even hold a hint of warmth. Like maybe he’s actually glad to see him.

Dean can hope, right?

“Hello, Dean.”

He sips his drink and immediately masks a wince as it singes the tip of his tongue. “So, ah,” he drawls, “any plans this weekend?” _Smooth, Winchester._

Cas’ face turns toward him and he nods, expression contemplative. “Yes.”

“Oh,” Dean says, trying not to sound too disappointed. Might as well twist the knife in a little deeper. Maybe throw on a little salt, too, because apparently, Dean’s a masochist. “Anything exciting?”

“On my Sundays off I go to the library to study,” Cas replies, neatly organizing everything on the single-serve shelf.

 _Okay_ , that’s a little strange. But if he doesn’t have a date, that must mean he’s single, right? Dean does a mental fist pump and side-steps an inch closer.

“Really? Study for what?”

“I—” Cas pauses, glancing toward the front of the store, probably to make sure Rufus hasn’t come out of the office. The box of supplies sits empty in front of them. “For school.”

“Oh yeah? You going to KU?”

“Yes.” Cas fidgets a little, shifting on his feet. Their arms brush together and Cas moves away, but rather than the abrupt abandonment of their conversation he typically pulls, he turns and faces Dean fully. “I’m finishing my Masters.”

Dean’s eyebrows rise. _Smart and good-looking._ “That’s awesome, man! My brother Sam goes there too, maybe you’ve met him. Big sasquatch of a guy, hair like he’s the lost Partridge sibling?”

Cas squints, head tilted. “Perhaps.”

Held down by his hip, Dean twists the plastic stirrer between forefinger and thumb, and a lingering droplet of coffee splashes onto the toe of his boot. Stepping forward into Cas’ space, his nose captures a pleasant scent—soap, or maybe aftershave. Something sharp yet earthy and clean. Reminds Dean of petrichor, the aroma of dew clinging to the moss and leaves and delicate petals scattered across a forest floor the morning after a tepid rainstorm. It suits the guy, somehow.

Cas’ lips part around a soft intake of breath, and Dean’s eyes fall to track the movement. His heart races, the tinny music from the overhead speakers drowned out by its frantic _da-dum, da-dum_ and, blood thrumming hotly through his veins, he tosses the stirrer into the plastic recycling bin behind Cas.

Blinking slowly at him like a drugged owl, Cas hooks a thumb over his shoulder and murmurs, “I should—”

“Right,” Dean says, then clears his throat. “I will, um, see you later?”

Cas nods again, already slowly backing away, his shy smile growing a fraction. He starts to turn around but hesitates, gaze flitting to Dean one last time. “Have a good day at work, Dean,” he says coyly.

Dean walks into the garage that day with his face nearly aching from the grin stretching across it. It’s not until midway through his shift he realizes he didn’t ask for Cas’ number… or that date.

* * *

Gut-deep under the hood of a 2002 Toyota Corolla, Dean hums under his breath along to Styx pouring from his earbuds while he works. With spring approaching and the adrenaline of a busy afternoon flowing through him, he’s stripped the top half of his coveralls, leaving the sleeves tied around his waist.

The mild air feels pleasantly soothing against the exposed skin his black t-shirt doesn’t cover, and as a bead of sweat traverses down his forehead, he grabs the rag hanging from his back pocket and wipes it away. Right when he moves to return it, someone yanks the dangling cord, an earbud popping free and bouncing against his chest.

“Hey!” Dean shouts. He shoots up, smacking his head on the underside of the open hood.

“Boy, I been hollerin’ for five damn minutes,” comes Bobby’s gruff voice. “Told you idjits if you’re gonna wear these at work to _keep the volume low_. Now, I gotta revoke that privilege?”

“Sorry, Bobby.” Dean grimaces, rubbing his sore skull. “What’s up?”

Arms crossed, Bobby grunts, “Boyfriend’s here,” and jerks his head, indicating somewhere over his shoulder.

His face flushes. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Bobby says, scruffy salt-n-peppered beard curling around a smirk. “Go on, I’ll send Ash over to finish the Corolla.”

 _Son of a bitch._ Everyone has picked up on his stupid crush _except_ the guy himself.

Dean heads over to the shop sink and quickly washes his hands. Not quite good enough to get all the grease from under his nails, but it’ll have to do because he doesn’t want to make him wait. Still wiping them dry on his thighs, Dean walks out from the open bay and sees Cas standing in the parking lot, his back to Dean, beside a gold Lincoln Continental Mark V. Late 70’s, Dean guesses, and not bad, but the color does it no favors whatsoever and it’s the absolute last thing he ever expected to see Cas driving.

Curious, he heads over, boots crunching across the sunbaked gravel. Cas turns upon hearing him approach, a flicker of nervousness crossing his face.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas greets, hand raised in an awkward wave.

“Hiya, Cas. What’s up?“

“My car.” _Obviously,_ Dean thinks but doesn’t say. Cas’ hands flutter at his sides for a second, then he glares down at them as if they’ve betrayed him somehow and shoves them roughly in his pockets. “It’s, um, making a strange noise.”

Dean chuckles. “Kinda vague, but I’ve heard worse. We can work with that.” With a hand poised to shield his eyes, he squints up at the sky, remembering the time. “Shouldn’t you be at work right now?”

“I-I’m on break,” Cas replies, giving a little half-shrug and ducking his head.

“Yeah?“ Dean grins excitedly. “Hey, uh, whaddaya say we go grab a bite for lunch? It’s about time for mine, too.”

Cas looks up, surprised. “I… okay.” The faint dusting of color along his cheekbones really brings out his eyes. “I’d like that.”

Dean takes him down to Moseley’s Diner. It’s a cozy little place which bears some of the city’s best burgers courtesy of its owner, a sweet, stout older lady who’s known near every regular patron since they were knee-high, including Dean and his brother. Soon as they walk in, the tinkling bell above the door signaling their entry, Dean spots the woman herself standing behind the counter.

Smiling, big brown eyes warm and bright, she waves them over. “Dean, sugar,” she croons sweetly, “how you been?”

He returns her fond expression and takes a seat on a vinyl barstool, gesturing for Cas to join him. “Doing good Ms. Moseley, you?”

“I’m fine, baby. Busy.” She glances between him and Cas. “Don’t be rude now, are you gonna introduce me to your friend?”

“Apologies, ma’am. Cas, this is Missouri, owner of this fine establishment. Missouri, Cas.”

“Just ‘Cas’?” she asks with a teasing lilt.

“Castiel Novak, ma’am.” Cas extends a hand, which she clasps gently between both of hers. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh, my. Polite _and_ handsome. He’s a keeper,” she says, pointedly tossing a wink Dean’s way. He flushes. She releases Cas’ hand and innocently pulls a pad of paper and pen out of her apron.

Clearing his throat, Dean glances at Cas to gauge his reaction, but it seems he’s already more invested in studying the daily specials menu written on the blackboard above the serving hatch in thick multi-colored chalk. They both order burgers and cokes and soon after delivering their drinks, Missouri wanders off holding a fresh pot of coffee to make her rounds.

Once alone with Cas, the nerves kick into high gear. He’s wanted to ask Cas out for months by this point, but now that they’re actually sitting down together somewhere outside of work, he’s at a complete fucking loss. His eyes zero in on the napkin he’s currently shredding for want of something to do with his hands.

“I’m guessing you come here often?” Cas sets his cup on the counter and wipes a hand over his mouth. For the first time, Dean notices how long and beautiful his fingers are, heat flaring low in his belly at the thought of being touched by them, of those hands on his skin.

“Ever since I was a kid, yeah. Missouri gave me my first real job actually, as a busboy. She knew my parents before they, um…” he trails off for a second. “They passed away. House fire.”

Cas seems to understand. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Was a long time ago.” Dean scoops all the napkin pieces into a pile and pushes them away just as Missouri hands them their plates. They both smile and thank her. “Bobby, though—you met him—he and his wife Ellen took us in.” He pushes the ketchup around his plate with a steak fry. “What about you? Are you from around here?”

Cas shakes his head, chewing and swallowing a bite before he speaks. “Pontiac, Illinois, actually. My sister Anna and I moved here a few years ago after our brother’s wife left him. He wasn’t prepared to raise a baby alone, so we’re helping him out.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

“No other family here?”

“Nope. Rest of them are still back home, except Gabe. He lives out in Los Angeles. Visits us sometimes, though.”

“Jesus. Big family, I take it?”

Cas laughs. Dean realizes he’s never heard him laugh before, not like this—it’s higher-pitched than his normal voice, goofy and stuttered, just shy of a straight-up snort—and decides he loves the sound.

“You have no idea,” Cas says. He’s still smiling as he stuffs his cheeks full of the burger and groans with pleasure.

On the ride back, the scents of native cottonwood, oak, and wildflowers drift on the wind into the open window through which Cas gazes. Sunlight dances across his tanned skin, emphasizes the brown highlights in his dark hair. His eyes flutter closed, lashes fanned against his cheeks, expression peaceful, content. Dean spots his hand lying on the bucket seat between them, and it takes everything Dean has not to lace their fingers together.

* * *

It becomes a common thing.

Not the lunches, not at first, but Cas’ piece of shit pimpmobile. At least every other week it comes into Singer’s with some new problem. Needs an oil change. A tire blows out. The passenger window gets stuck open. The radio breaks.

By the time Cas swings by with a busted tail light, Dean says _fuck it_ and the next day, when their lunch hours happen to line up, he wanders next door right as Cas’ break starts and asks bluntly, “Hungry?”

Neither of them say a word about what this might mean, just silently climb into the Impala and head to Moseley’s with both windows open to the spring air and Dean’s favorite Zepp mixtape playing through its B-side.

Initially, they stay at the counter. After a few trips, they graduate to a booth.

Dean prefers one in the corner by the window, relishes the way the afternoon sun there makes Cas’ eyes gleam, and that booth is mysteriously never taken when they’re there. About a month down the line, he purposely waits until Cas is a few steps ahead of him to ask Missouri in a hushed whisper if she saves it for them. She just gives him a knowing smile.

Later, when Cas pats his satisfied stomach and says he’ll meet him at the car, Dean thanks Missouri with a big kiss to her cheek on top of her usual generous tip. She cups his face in one softly wrinkled palm, her eyes sympathetic and kind, and says, “You should tell him, baby.”

Ignoring the anxious twist of his insides, Dean offers her a wistful smile.

 _Soon,_ he thinks. _When I’m ready._

* * *

Dean stands at his locker, strips his dirty coveralls and tosses them into the pile with the others. Each employee has a couple pairs, complete with a sewn monogram of their name, and Bobby takes them to get professionally laundered twice a week since oil and gas fumes aren’t safe for home-washing.

It’s been a long damn week, and he's ready to kick back and do jack squat tonight. Already got a plan laid out in his mind, in fact; he’s gonna clock out, pick up some beer, say goodnight to Cas, go home, shower, order a pizza, and watch Doctor Sexy reruns until his brain stops working.

“So,” Benny starts, clapping him on the shoulder. “Comin’ out tonight?”

Dean groans, only half-feigning misery because he knows he’s not actually being given a choice. “Nah, I don’t think so.”

“You’re breakin’ my heart, cher,” the burly New Orleanian says with a sly smile, hand held over his chest. “Don’t make me beg.”

Then Ash barges into the room behind them, wiping his hands on an oil rag. “Eeeey, Dean! Caught you just in time.”

Leaving the Impala at Singer’s, the trio pile into Benny’s pickup and less than ten minutes later, they’re claiming a table at their usual haunt, more than ready to shed the exhaustion of the day with some cheap booze and good grub.

Harvelle’s Roadhouse, run by none other than Ellen, is a real jewel even in a college town like Lawrence. The hole-in-the-wall bar has been a staple of the community since before Dean was born, and like the show _Cheers_ , it’s is the kind of place where everyone knows your name. A sort of second home where locals can relax after a long, hard day’s work and enjoy a decent beer and pub fare surrounded by familiar faces.

It’s frequented by trade workers, students, and everyone between—and to top it off, Harvelle’s is LGBT-friendly because Ellen “doesn’t tolerate that bigoted bullcrap” (her words). And although she’s got the big, stoic ex-military Vic standing post to bounce the occasional rowdy jackass on busier nights, she’s known for being an ace shot with the 9mm revolver she keeps under the bar so more often than not, nobody’s stupid enough to risk it.

Now full and satisfied, Dean leans back in the booth and nurses his beer, content to let it be his last before he starts on water since he’s gotta drive later. Fingertips tapping against the pint glass to the rhythm of “Fool in the Rain”, he smiles and nods, laughs when his friends do, and tries to keep up with the conversation, yet his mind drifts time and again.

He’s there, but not there. Distant.

Until Benny snaps his fingers right under Dean’s nose.

“That’s it. Something’s botherin’ you, brother. Care to share?”

“Sharing _is_ caring,” Ash chimes in, words slurred. One of them is gonna have to give him a ride home tonight.

“It’s nothing.”

“Uh-huh,“ Benny hums, disbelief coloring his tone. He sips the lone glass of Mint Julep he’s been nursing for the better part of an hour, eyeing Dean over the rim. “This have anything to do with loverboy next door?”

“Pfft, what? No.”

“You see that?” Ash points somewhere in the general vicinity of Dean’s entire fucking face. “That little twitch? That’s his tell.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Remind me never to play poker with you assholes again.”

“C’mon cher, spill. Maybe we can help.”

Rubbing his stubbled chin, Dean relents with a sigh. “I dunno what it is about this guy. He’s just… different.”

“Like, _the one_?” Ash asks, probably one shot away from giving him full-on heart-eyes at the news. No wonder he and Charlie get along, the saps.

Dean shrugs, a wordless _maybe_ that he knows inside is really a definite _yes_.

“But you still haven’t asked him out,” Benny points out.

“I can’t even tell if he’s interested.”

“Just go for it, man!“ Ash exclaims, hands flailing in the air. “Life is short!”

Benny nods solemnly. “He’s right. What do you have to lose? You miss your chance, you’ll regret it.”

That night, Dean stares at the ceiling above his bed, Benny’s words echoing through his mind as he watches the shadows cast by the fan flicker through the scant moonlight illuminating the room.

It's three a.m.

He works in the morning.

He hasn’t slept a friggin’ wink.

Turns out there might actually be more harm in _not_ asking, because the longer he’s seeing Cas, talking to him, and the closer they get, the harder it is to bridge this stupid invisible gap between them.

They’re friends (he thinks, or hopes). He _knows_ Cas, but still feels he knows... nothing at all. As though he's from another goddamn plane of existence entirely, merely a visitor passing through Dean’s on his way to somewhere, or some _thing_ , else.

It brings to Dean’s mind that awkward sensation you get when you’ve forgotten a new acquaintance’s name. Under the assumption that they think you know it, you keep up the charade, shuffling and dodging around potentially using the wrong one to avoid causing offense. Then snoop, and drop hints, and lead them with little conversational breadcrumbs in hopes they’ll just say it out loud and put you out of your fucking misery.

This really shouldn’t be so damn difficult.

* * *

Over the past few months, Rufus has been giving Cas more responsibility in overseeing the store, so it doesn’t come as much of a surprise when he starts asking him to close up on occasion. It’s a point of pride for Cas, that he’s earned that sort of trust (especially from a grumpy old bastard like Rufus), and Dean can respect that.

Tonight is one such night—the culmination of a hot-as-balls Saturday in early June—and although Dean’s already home for the day, freshly showered and sprawled on the couch in his flannel hot-dog pants, his mind won't turn off and his stomach won't turn on. He hasn't even touched the beer sitting on his coffee-table, condensation pooling around the edges of one of the cork coasters he got in a five-pack at Walmart when he first moved in.

Sure, Cas is a tall, fit guy and it’s a decent area. But… something about him being in the store for hours like that, after dark and all alone, ties Dean’s stomach in knots. Maybe Sam’s true crime obsession is rubbing off on him.

After an hour of intense internal debate, he decides to drop in and check on Cas before closing. Just to, you know, keep him company.

Dean peers through the windshield as he turns off the ignition and smiles at Cas’ concentrated frown. He’s focused intently on counting the register, putting the last of that day’s cash into the zippered envelope which gets deposited in the office safe before it’s dropped off at the bank. Pocketing Baby’s keys, Dean makes his way to the door, rapping his knuckles on the glass.

Cas looks up, startled, and shuffles over quickly to unlock it. “Dean?”

“I’ll have some beef jerky and a pack of menthols.”

“You don’t even smoke.”

“Nope,” he says, breezing inside with a shit-eating grin in full effect.

“What are you doing here?”

“Gee, it’s nice to see you too, Cas.”

Cas shoots a scowl over his shoulder, retorting, “I could get in trouble for letting you in after closing,” as he secures the door.

“Eh, I’m sure Rufus won’t mind.”

“I’m being serious, Dean.”

“I was in the neighborhood and saw the lights on.” He shrugs, leaning against the front counter, ankles crossed. “Whatcha got left to do? Put me to work, buddy.”

“Want to scrub the john?”

Dean grimaces. “Not especially.”

Cas sighs. “I tried. Well, know how to work a mop bucket?”

They work steadily in an easy, comfortable silence, Cas starting at one end, Dean at the other, and within a quarter of an hour they meet in the middle by the drink station. Cas fills a pitcher with soda water, popping each nozzle off the soda machine and dropping them into it to be set aside, then moves on to the slushies. Humming to a tune in his head, Dean sways his hips and dances with the mop, listening to Cas chuckle behind him. Then—

“Shit, shit, shit,” Cas curses. Dean spins around to see Cas cupping his hands under the spout in a vain attempt to stem the flow of syrupy, icy blue mush. It’s no use, though, running like a river through his fingers, down his forearms, splashing all over the floor. Dean darts forward, wobbling and sliding around like a toddler on skates in the sludge. But just when he thinks he’s regained his balance, his foot slips from under him and he careens right into Cas, sending them both toppling to the floor.

“Gimme the—damn it, Cas, gimme the thing!”

Cas’ head whips from side to side, searching. “I can’t, I dropped it!”

They both lean in simultaneously, fumbling for the cap so maybe they can reattach it, and their heads crash together with a painful thud.

“Fuck.”

“Found it!”

Cas screws it on and collapses back on the floor in an exhausted heap, breathing hard. Their eyes meet, and Dean braces himself for a verbal berating when instead, Cas bursts into raucous laughter, shoulders shaking and head thrown back. The sound is contagious. Before he knows it, they’re both giggling like little kids, sitting in the pool of slush even as it soaks and stains their clothes.

“Rufus is gonna kill me,” Cas says on the back end of a hiccup, wiping at his eyes with the only clear spot on his arm.

Dean heaves to his feet with a grunt and holds out a hand to pull Cas up. “Not if he doesn’t find out.”

After the mess is mopped, evidence erased and crisis thoroughly averted, Cas leads Dean into the employee break room. He wets two rags, handing one to Dean, and without warning strips off his vest and shirt, tossing them into a plastic bag. Frozen to the spot, Dean stares at the curve of Cas’ broad, tan shoulders, the planes of his lean, muscled back and flat stomach, watching with bated breath while Cas runs the damp towel over his thick arms and chest, up his long neck, then into his hair. When Cas finally adds that towel to the bag, his skin is glistening wet, hair disheveled as if he’d just rolled out of bed.

Dean’s pretty sure he’s drooling.

He turns and strips his own shirt, mimicking the process in a rush. He’ll take another shower at home anyway.

Tugging open a locker, Cas pulls out a backpack, fishing around for a minute before slipping a new shirt over his head. While disappointing to watch all the skin disappear behind a curtain of cloth once more, it’s for the best, because the last thing Dean needs right now is an inappropriate hard-on.

“Hey,” Cas says. Dean turns to find him _way_ up in his personal space and flushes from head to toe. “Here.” Cas shoves a bundle into his arms.

Their gazes lock, Cas’ eyes appearing darker than usual, a look hidden within their depths Dean can’t discern. _Must be a trick of the lighting_ , he thinks, but that fails to explain why the air feels so thick, anticipation a dense, humid fog hovering in the few inches between them and, pinned by that piercing gaze, goosebumps prickle along his damp, naked skin. He shivers, watching as Cas’ lower lip drags between his teeth. Dean longs, _aches_ , to reach up, pull it free with his thumb. Wants to know if it’s as soft and plush as it looks, how it would feel against his own lips, if Cas would taste as lovely as he always smells. Instead, Dean croaks hoarsely, “Wh-what?”

“I don’t have another t-shirt,” Cas says, taking a step back, “but this should do for now.”

“O- _oh_. Um… thanks.”

Cas smirks. “Anytime.”

* * *

Dean’s disappointed when he doesn’t see Cas at the Gas-N-Sip the following workday. He moves through it listlessly, mood immediately dampened and thoughts muddied.

Then a few more days pass—still no Cas. A sense of foreboding builds in his gut.

_Something is wrong._

He keeps his eyes peeled for the Lincoln as his brain spins scenario after scenario, beginning with the mundane and devolving into the horrific. Thoughts like, maybe Cas has a cold, become maybe Cas got hurt, become maybe Cas is dead, and by the end of the week it takes all Dean’s willpower not to call all the hospitals and morgues and dig through the _Lawrence Journal-World’s_ obits.

Finally, that Saturday, he gathers his courage and asks Rufus directly.

Rufus tells him that Cas had put in his two weeks not long ago with the explanation that he’d recently graduated and had a few jobs lined up he would be busy interviewing for, so he wouldn’t have the time to come in anymore.

The shock must be apparent on Dean’s face because Rufus, possibly the least affectionate person Dean’s ever met (Bobby’s the only one on the planet Rufus is _remotely_ nice to and even then it’s more that they both begrudgingly respect and tolerate one another, having been business neighbors and friends for the past forty-something years) claps a hand on his shoulder, gives it a quick squeeze, and leaves him alone in the break room so he can have a few minutes of privacy.

That backfires quickly, though, when Dean realizes where he is and the memory of the other night hits him like a ton of bricks.

So close. He’d come _so close._

Dean walks back to the garage in a daze. Goes right into Bobby’s office, tells him he doesn’t feel well.

Normally Bobby would give him shit, ask him something along the lines of “Ain’t gonna up-chuck on someone’s engine, are ya?” Not this time. Bobby takes one look at Dean’s face and says, “Take a few days. You need anything, call.”

* * *

The color’s been sucked out of the world; the previously joyful, vibrant hues of summer diminished beneath a filter of his ennui and far less appealing than the view from under the blanket he loathes leaving every morning.

He can’t even look at the sky without thinking of the eyes he’ll never see again.

Dean picks up extra shifts, works himself to the bone with 60 hour weeks for a while until Bobby cuts him off with the excuse of, “you’re gonna kill my wallet with all this overtime, boy. Go home.” Dean doesn’t believe him. Bobby’s worried, but knowing all too well how Dean reacts to emotional confrontation, he’s probably unwilling to acknowledge it or thinks Dean just needs some space and will come to him when he’s ready.

So Dean goes home.

He starts drinking—less at Harvelle’s, and more at his apartment, alone. Gets lazy about shaving. Sleeps through most of his days off. Loses six pounds. A mess of empty cans, mugs, and takeout containers pile up on his coffee table, the kitchen counters, a shelf or two.

Everyone knows something is up, but no one says anything. At least not to him directly, but he hears the whispers and ignores them.

It’s no big deal. _He’s. Fine._

* * *

One muggy August evening, Dean finds himself in the middle of the freezer aisle at the grocery store, staring blankly at the same row of pizzas for going on ten minutes. His basket is full of stereotypical lonely bachelor staples. Frozen dinners and burritos. Ramen cups. Canned soup and chili. Crap he surprisingly didn’t eat much of before, because he’s always loved to cook. Lately, however, he can’t find the motivation to touch the stove, opting instead for quick fixes the rare times he remembers to eat at all.

He’s half-heartedly contemplating the merits of pan crust versus rising when someone calls out, but it’s distant, muffled like there’s a thick, fuzzy wall between him and the rest of the universe. Dean blinks. The sound gets louder, clearer. Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, a strangely soothing and familiar weight, and it’s pulling him, turning him bodily around.

“Dean?”

Dean blinks again. Familiar eyes stare back at him. Heart taking up residence in his throat, he bites back a sob. His vision blurs, tunnels a little.

“Dean, are you alright?”

He looks different, yet so much the same, wearing an ill-fitting suit and crooked tie beneath a rumpled beige trenchcoat. His hair is windswept, a bit longer than before, and the circles under his eyes are darker than Dean remembers, the eyes themselves tired. Perhaps even forlorn.

“You—Cas?”

Cas squints, head cocked. “Yes?” he says, a little uncertain, as though he thinks Dean could ever truly forget him.

“What… what are you doing here?”

“Getting groceries on my way home,” he replies, lifting a single basket. “Same as you, I presume.”

“Oh. Right.”

“It’s been a while.” Cas’ gaze falls, as does his hand from Dean’s shoulder. He shifts from foot to foot.

“You left…” _Me,_ he doesn’t say. _You left me._

“Yeah. I wanted to—” Cas cuts himself off, rubbing the nape of his neck. “I-I’d been job hunting since graduation and finally got something lined up at the university. I start at the end of the month.”

Dean swallows thickly, plastering on a fake smile. “That’s great.”

“I’m sorry.” Cas glances up, gaze soulful, searching. Dean looks away. He can’t bear the hope within them any more than he can bear to live through that rejection twice. “I… I just saw you standing here and… I wanted to make sure you were okay. Sorry for bothering you.”

“I’m fine,” Dean lies through gritted teeth.

“Okay. Well…” In his periphery, he sees Cas' eyes dim, the edges of his mouth downturned. “It was great to see you again… Take care of yourself, Dean.” Cas backs away, gaze lingering for a long, agonizing minute before he rounds the corner and disappears from view.

Stupefied, Dean stares at the spot Castiel Novak previously occupied, feeling the loss swell and crest like a physical ache beneath his ribs, a reflection of the space Cas had carved deep within his heart and then, unwittingly, abandoned.

Seconds tick by.

An elderly woman pauses behind her cart in the center of the aisle. Her foot _tap-tap-taps_ against the tile. She clears her throat. Frustrated, she finally skirts around him, squeezing through the narrow gap but it’s too close a call and the rung where big items sit scrapes noisily along the bottom edge of the freezer door, dragging Dean out of his stupor.

He’d been waiting, hoping desperately to see Cas all this time, and now that he has, he’s let him slip through his fingers yet again.

_No._

One foot in front of the other, he moves, the basket in his hand crashing to the floor. He scans the sea of heads in the checkout lanes for that tousled brown mop, the frumpy trench, but doesn’t see him. Running toward the exit, he finds it’s drizzling outside, a humid summer rain. Dean crosses the threshold without a second thought, dashing through the parking lot, past Baby, to the corner of the street and there—head down, one arm hugging a plastic bag to his chest, the other in his pocket—walks Cas on the opposite side. A horn blares to his left and his hand slaps against the hood of someone’s silver sedan as it narrowly avoids bruising the shit out of his thigh, but he makes it across the street, eyes and lungs burning.

“Cas! CAS!”

Cas stops in his tracks. Turns slowly as though in a daze, and before he can say a word, Dean has him wrapped in his arms, Cas’ groceries crushed between them.

“Dean? Wh-what—” he says weakly.

“I wanted, _fuck_ , I did, but you… you left. You left and I never got to say—I never got to tell you.”

Dean pulls away, one hand settling upon Cas’ shoulder, the other tilting his chin so their eyes meet. He needs Cas not just to hear him, but to _see_ , and _know_ that he means every word.

Cas’ lip trembles. “Tell me… tell me what?”

“I wanted to tell you why I call you Sunshine. Why I would play the same tape on repeat whenever you were in the car with me—and I know you thought I couldn't hear you sing along under your breath, but I could—you can't carry a tune if your life depends on it but I don’t give a shit because I can listen to you all day. I-I wanted to tell you how cute it is when, you know that thing you do when you don't get a joke? And—and the way your nose scrunches up when you _do_ , and you _laugh_ , and your laugh, it’s the dorkiest goddamn thing.” A low chuckle escapes, slightly strangled with emotion as he’s inundated with memories, nearly overwhelmed. Then, softer, “I wanted to tell you that I kept that sweatshirt, I kept it, and I wear it every night or else I can’t sleep but it doesn’t smell like you anymore and your—Christ, this is such a fucking cliche, but hear me out—the sky has nothing on you man, your eyes are the most beautiful I've ever seen.” Gulping a lungful of damp air, he continues, just above a whisper, “Thing is, Cas, I-I’m crazy about you. Head over fucking heels… Have been since day one.”

Dean’s eyes squeeze shut as he tries to regain his bearings.

Now it's out there. He finally said it, and he's shaking, terrified, but so _relieved_ that his body feels lighter, all the oxygen in it replaced with helium and his head only holding on by the thin tether of a hysterical giggle buried in his throat, threatening to escape.

There's a long pause.

Just when he thinks Cas isn’t going to reciprocate, Dean hears a thud, the crinkle of plastic, and feels a soft, tentative press of lips. Cas’ hands cup Dean’s jaw, fingers run through his hair, pulling him closer, the bag forgotten at their feet. An orange rolls out onto the dark, rain-spattered sidewalk, bumping Dean’s shoe. Ignoring it, he leans into the kiss, deepening it eagerly and tracing his tongue along the seam of Cas’ lips. They part, welcoming him inside, and he takes the invitation as a man possessed would, mapping out each warm crevice and pulling Cas closer with desperate fingertips digging into sharp hips. Cas’ mouth tastes of honey and tea and rain, herbal and salty-sweet, of time lost and the beautiful here and now.

More than anything, it tastes of _promise_.

Dean whimpers when they part, craving more. Cas’ eyes shimmer under the streetlamp’s dim fluorescent bulb, tears clinging to his lashes, and his smile— _Jesus, his smile_ —Dean wishes he could freeze this moment in time, bottle it, carry it with him always.

Cas leans in, eyes drifting shut, and presses his forehead to Dean’s. “Me too,” Cas confesses, his voice breathy and uneven. “From that first day, Dean. You were— _are_ —so kind, and caring, and funny, and-and _beautiful_. I didn’t know how to… how to even approach you.” He takes a ragged breath, lets it out with a soft huff of laughter. “Remember my car? All a ruse. My friend Meg helped, she’s very... destructive. And”—pulling back, Cas’ eyes open and he grins—“I know how you take your coffee.”

Dean laughs, burying his face against Cas’ shoulder. “We’re a couple of dumbasses, huh.”

“I prefer the word ‘oblivious’. Less dumb, less ass.” Cas’ head tilts, pondering. “Unless you’re into the latter. Which I certainly hope you are because I’m quite fond of yours.”

He kisses Cas again, ignoring the curious stares of passersby. The arms encircling his neck, holding him tight, tell him he's safe, _loved_ , and he feels rather than sees Cas' smile trail down to press into the tender skin of his throat. They're in their own little world now, Dean and Cas, a world of their creation. And he's never been more sure of anything than in this moment.

“Stay with me?” Dean murmurs.

A soft sigh.

“I thought you'd never ask.”

**Author's Note:**

> I went a little over 😬 oops
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much for reading! Comments give me life uwu <3
> 
>   
> If you'd like to receive updates for this or my other works, hit that [subscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittimau/profile) button.
> 
> Want to talk with me about Destiel, SPN, or writing? Find me on [Tumblr](https://kmauspn.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/kittimau1). 💙💚

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [One September Morning [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29545161) by [NerdyNerdenstein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyNerdenstein/pseuds/NerdyNerdenstein)




End file.
